


Many Heads are Better Than One

by kenmarlenn



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenmarlenn/pseuds/kenmarlenn
Summary: A series of short drabbles about the everyday troubles Mark's Egos get up to. Some later chapters feature or include Jack's egos too. (Teen rating is in case some violence happens later.)





	1. Chicken Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: Promt: Someone seeing Host writing and looking over his shoulder expecting to see chicken scratch but finding hes written very clearly.

Edgar heard the scratching of pen on paper from all the way down the hall. He’d hesitated before walking slowly towards the door that he knew led to the Host’s study. The Host had been a heck of a writer before whatever happened… happened, Warfstache had told him, but he apparently hadn’t picked up an actual pen since then. Now he just talked, droning on and on about what was happening in real time. Host had already been told that Dr. Iplier was working on a braille typewriter for him. Was he so eager to write that he’d start using a pen again?

_He’s blind as a bat,_ Ed thought, and shook his head. _Whatever he’s writing in there, it’ll be a mess. Chicken scratch._ But he remained curious about one of the most secretive members of their little posse, and continued striding down the hall towards the slightly open door. 

The door opened further with a little creak as Ed pushed it, causing him to freeze. In the room, the Host sat in his chair, back to the door, his hand and the pen clutched in it nearly a blur as they flew over the papers in front of him. The dim, warm light of the study spilled into the hallway, illuminating Edgar’s figure lurking in the doorway. The Host continued to run his pen over the paper without interruption, and reassuring himself that he hadn’t heard and _he can’t see you, he’s blind,_ Ed unfroze and walked slowly over to the Host. The soft rugs covering nearly every inch of the floor muffled his movement. 

He’d reached the Host quickly. The study wasn’t very large after all. _How much ink had gotten on the table rather than the papers? How bad was his handwriting?_ Ed had to wonder. He leaned over the other man’s shoulder carefully, one hand holding his hat to his head. Not making a single noise, not letting a single hair tickle the Host’s neck, Ed looked to see what he was doing. 

The papers were covered in smooth, clean, flowing script, wet ink shimmering as it flowed out from the Host’s pen. Every word was legible - though it was somewhat hard as reading cursive wasn’t Ed’s strong suit - and the Host showed no hesitation as he wrote. Ed was surprised and nearly lost his grip on his hat.

Leaning closer, curiosity getting the best of him, Ed started reading the most recent words the Host had written.

>   
>  _Surprised by how the blind man could write so well, Ed Edgar started to read the most recent words the Host had written. He gasped-_  
> 

Ed gasped and backed away suddenly, face flushed with embarrassment at being caught. At the desk, the Host smiled a little.

“Crap,” Ed said as the Host wrote the same.


	2. Low Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Promt: Google being low on his charge and the others having to figure out how to charge him.

Warfstache was reading a book. Something initially dull, honestly, a romance novel, but it'd been in the mystery section so hopefully a murder happened soon. He was imagining the plot twist that led to the horrible male protagonist’s demise, the blood, the screaming. If things didn't turn out that way, Wilford thought, he would have to ask the Host to write him a new ending, where the murder happened and the girl had a happy relationship with the assassin she'd hired to off him.

When he finally focused on the book itself, he was surprised to find the text awash in a red light. It faded in and out, in and out, and Wilford wondered if his pondering about murder and blood was making him see things. Looking up from his book, he realized the whole room was red, and a subtle buzz filled the air. “I was…. distracted,” Warfstache said aloud, and turned to his right where Google was sitting. “Did Dark show up or something? Red lights and annoying noises are his thing.”

Google turned to him, slowly. Very slowly. He took a long time to respond when he was in a bad mood, just to irritate the others, but this was so slow it seemed unnatural. Wilford noted that the ‘G’ on his chest was pulsing red, the source of the light bathing the room. “I am…… low.” Google’s speech wasn't glitching, like it had before his upgrade, but it was drawn out and painfully slow. “On…. charge,” he clarified a whole minute later as Warfstache stared at him in confusion.

“Ah,” Wilford said, and nodded sagely. “That new upgrade takes up a lot of battery, ehh friend?” 

Google moved his head slowly up and down in something that Wilford interpreted to be a nod. 

“Good, so, ah, what do we do to fix you? You need to…. nap, or is there a cord or something we can plug you into a wall socket, or--” 

Google frowned. “I only…. need…. to sh-” Then all of a sudden, the red glow of the ‘G’ turned off completely, and he froze in the middle of his sentence. There was a pause as Wilford stared at him.

“Uh… Googs? Hellooooooo?” Warfstache frowned and waved his hand in front of Google’s face. There was no reaction. “Hm,” he said, and stood abruptly. He grabbed a microphone from the pocket of hammerspace in his, well, pocket, and spoke, knowing he would be broadcast to the whole building. 

“Hello, gentlemen and other, less polite sorts! Need some help down in the conference room, seems Google’s gone kaput.” Warfstache’s voice echoed in his ears as his announcement came through the speakers in the room and the hallway. Loudly. (Which was the only way Wilford could announce anything.) “Bring whatever you think could maybe possibly help. Thanks!” A glance back at Google showed no sign of response, and with a sigh Warfstache shoved the microphone back into hammerspace.

* * *

A few moments later, the Jims, Bim, and Dr. Iplier opened the glass doors to the conference room. As one, they stopped as they took in the sight of Google, frozen mid-word, with an uncharacteristically worried looking Wilford hovering over him. 

After being beckoned closer and having the situation explained to them, each ego attempted to get a response from Google. The Jims had brought various wires and cords, from USB to HDMI to VGA to DVI to ethernet to a bunch of other cables, and Wilford didn’t know what half of them did let alone their names. Unfortunately, neither did the Jims. News Jim kept prodding various areas of Google’s body with various wires, trying to find somewhere that would accept something. Weather Jim, meanwhile, was despairing over the fact that they’d forgotten to bring anything that they could use to plug their many cords into the wall outlets. 

Bim flitted around them, attempting to be helpful but really just getting underfoot. Wilford took pity on him - he just wanted to help after all - and sat him down, then gave him the book he had been reading. Bim looked up at him with confusion in his eyes. “Tell me what page the murder starts on,” Warfstache said nonchalantly, patting the other man on the back and walking back over to Google.

Dr. Iplier was not the best physician in the multiverse, by far. But he had some decent knowledge of human anatomy and how the human body worked. Unfortunately, he was attempting to apply this knowledge to their entirely robotic friend. He had, with difficulty, pried open Google’s mouth and was trying to take his temperature, and had been trying to check his heartbeat and breathing. None of which, of course, existed. As a result, every so often he’d look up forlornly to the others and whisper, “I’m sorry… he’s dying.” The Jims just snickered, and Wilford sighed. Bim, despite what Wilford had expected, was engrossed in the book and never noticed.

* * *

Eventually, after about an hour of attempting to revive Google, they had all given up. Warfstache continued to look slightly concerned about the predicament, and was grumbling something about all the egos technically being close-to-engineers and being unable to fix Google. They were sitting around, discussing their options, when the Host gently pushed open the door. 

“Google is still not responding, is he,” the Host said. It was a statement, not a question. The other egos nodded and shrugged. The Host nodded, and his face scrunched up in concentration. After some soft mumbling, narration too quiet for the others to hear, the Host looked back at the others. His mouth turned upward into a small smile as he chuckled to himself. “The robot,” he narrated normally, “is recharging as we speak. The Google IRL unit is equipped to slowly recharge its batteries while in a sleep mode, but will shut down and do the same if it does not take the time to recharge before charge level reaches zero.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Iplier. “So he fainted from exhaustion?”

“Essentially.”

“He hadn’t been sleeping recently, something about his upgrade kept bothering him or something,” Wilford mused. “So he’s okay, then?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. Sit down, would you Host?” Warfstache gestured to his own chair as he stood and made his way to Google. “He’s just… sleeping. And he can’t wake up?”

Now sitting with the others - in a seat near the Jims rather than the chair Wilford had offered - the Host murmured to himself again, then spoke loud enough for the others to hear. “... the unit would not be able to wake up until his battery was 100% charged. This meant that the unit would be unresponsive. He would also…” The smirk was back, and the slight laughter behind his next words was evident. “... he would also be unable to prevent any… shenanigans… from happening to him, should any such things occur.”

Everyone else in the room suddenly had a mischievous glint in their eye.


	3. Showtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Promt: Bim Trimmer being a huge fanboy of Wilford.

The dressing rooms were all equipped with small TVs, meant for the hosts, contestants, interviewees and cast members to tell when their cues were coming up. By default, they were all on mute, with closed captions scrolling below the screen, but this time Bim had his turned up to maximum volume.

Bim tucked various hairs back into his finely combed hairdo. He checked his makeup in the mirror halfheartedly, mostly focusing on the reflection of the TV. Taking up the screen was a dramatically gesturing Wilford Warfstache, holding some sort of interview with a hapless audience member. But the focus was clearly on Warfstache, with the camera cutting to him the most often. Bim, an avid viewer of Wilford’s shows, noticed a telltale glint of metal - a knife or a gun, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t really matter did it? - in Warfstache’s pocket about five minutes into the segment. Today was a day where cleanup crew had to work double time to get the stage cleaned up for the news segment.

Right on cue, outside in the hall, Bim heard the Jims arguing about what disasters were scheduled for today, taking bets on how much destruction would occur. He’d thought it in slightly bad taste, but when he brought it up the twins had such a deeply pained expression in their eyes that he left them alone. People cope in their own ways, he supposed. Just like Bim himself.

He took a deep breath, then another. He looked up at the reflection of the TV again. Wilford’s booming voice had faded out while he’d been distracted, and now Warfstache’s logo was the only thing on the screen. His segment must be over. That meant the Jims had been on their way to the studio, which meant once they did their segment - from the amount of arguing he’d heard, Bim guessed it would be a longer segment than usual - it would be his turn, and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

Matthias wasn’t a contestant this time so he could probably keep his composure easier but he’d flubbed his introductions last time he’d hosted and everyone probably remembered that and would be paying even more close attention so he couldn’t make a mistake he couldn’t he couldn’t fail he had to be smart and smooth and suave even if he was just a nervous idiot on the inside he had to--

“KNOCK KNOCK!”

Bim jumped about three feet in the air. Engrossed in his anxious train of thought, he’d closed his eyes and not noticed his door opening. Whirling around, he saw Warfstache standing in the doorway, arms spread wide. Bim noticed that his hands were covered in blood, which honestly was normal after an interview segment. It didn’t bother him - he himself preferred a more hands-off style, but to each his own - but he did make a mental note not to let Wilford touch his suit until his hands were washed.

“People usually knock on the door when they enter, they don’t just open it and shout ‘knock knock,’” Bim said, plastering a smile on his face. His anxiety about his segment had been interrupted, for the most part, but now with Wilford here, other anxieties were coming into play. Wilford Warfstache was amazing, legendary, important, a star, wonderful at his job, and though Bim still couldn’t believe he had this opportunity, he was Bim’s boss. And yet he insisted on popping into Bim’s dressing room whenever he knew one of his segments was coming up

“Well, well, my dear fellow, I am anything but usual,” Wilford chuckled, and stepped inside. As he reached to pull the door closed, he seemed to finally notice the blood covering his hands and sighed. A snap of his fingers, and the blood was gone, leaving his hands clean and smelling slightly of bubblegum. “Wanted to check in on you and ah, see how you were doing.”

Bim had to shake himself out of the small trance he’d gone into watching Wilford’s reality warping powers. They were so interesting to him, and the power Wilford had over hammerspace was impressive. That he used his powers for such small things when clearly, clearly, he could do so much more, was fascinating to him. It was humble. While Warfstache’s personality was anything but humble, a trait he’d been trying to get Bim to adopt, he still didn’t show off his powers. Unlike some others.

“I’m going to be fine,” Bim said. He blushed a little, feeling like he was lying, and Warfstache must have noticed because he came over and put a hand on Bim’s shoulder.

Then the older ego smiled at him, genuinely, not an exaggerated one like he tended to have, but a real, honest-to-goodness smile. Bim felt a little bit better inside, just seeing that smile aimed towards him. “You will be, Trimmer. You’re talented, you know that? A real show stopper. You’re gonna be fine.” Wilford patted Bim’s shoulder.

Bim felt like he was floating, and if he was a cartoon, he’d have stars in his eyes from all the praise. From Wilford, who, forgive him if he was repeating himself, was amazing, legendary, a star! He called him a show stopper! In a good way, it seemed, though he could have meant it in a bad way after all there’s no telling with things like that what if he stops shows because he’s so bad at hosting what if--

“Heh,” said Warfstache, patting Bim’s shoulder again a bit more forcefully, startling him yet again out of a negative train of thought. “You seem to be a bit… starry eyed, Bimmy Boy.”

“Eh?” Bim turned to face the mirror and blushed again. His irises had, in fact, literally turned to stars. “Ah,” he said, embarrassed. He blinked a couple times, and his irises went back to their normal shape. “My powers acting up, I didn’t mean to-”

Warfstache chuckled. “No, no, please, it’s flattering you’re so in awe of me.” He glanced quickly up at the TV in the corner. “Seems it’s almost your cue.”

Sure enough, Weatherman Jim seemed to be wrapping up his report. Bim sighed, straightened his tie, and put on his most determined face. “Thank you for checking up on me. I appreciate it, sir.”

“No trouble, no trouble,” Wilford said, waving him off. “Happy to. Now, get out there and knock ‘em _dead_!” He gave an overly exaggerated wink.

Bim laughed and winked back, then strode forward. Warfstache opened the door and waved him through, then waved as he walked left down the hall to his own dressing room. Bim himself walked right, towards the studio.

Instead of his normal nervous pre-show ritual of trying to keep his anxiety under wraps, this time he had to refrain himself from squeeing so loudly that the live microphones on stage would catch him.


	4. Lurking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: bim is flustered and trying to explain why he likes mathias to one of the egos?
> 
> ((I got sort of off prompt with this one, but since I HC that Bim’s crush was crushed by reality really quickly after Hire My A**, I hope you’ll excuse me))

Newscaster Jim, normally called James to make him distinguishable from his twin, found Bim sitting on a couch in the green room of the studio, grasping a tablet and with an empty quart of ice cream on the floor next to him. He knocked lightly on the door frame, then entered and sat next to Bim, who didn’t look up. James leaned over and looked at the tablet, and saw a bunch of men running around with Nerf guns. “What’re you watching?” James said softly, already knowing the answer.

“Matthias,” Bim mumbled, pointing to the blond man on screen who was busy shooting Nerf darts at others.

“Oh.” James put a reassuring hand on Bim’s shoulder. Bim had been head over heels with a crush on Matthias since he had done that sketch with Mark and Bim had gotten his first chance to have a feature on the channel. He took it hard when he learned that Matthias was married, and now had a baby. But James thought he’d bounced back, and yet here he was looking like he’d been through a breakup. “Um, he’s… a big man child?” James said, offering support in one of the only ways he knew how. “He wasn’t worth your attention?”

“No! Don’t be mean about it, it’s nothing against him.” Bim waved a hand. “This is my own issues keeping me down. By ‘you love me’ he meant in a platonic, fan sense, even if I didn’t. This isn’t a ‘lost love’ ice cream binge watch, this is just a… ‘wow I wonder how he’s doing’ binge watch.”

James frowned. “That’s not good either, is it? Lurking? Maybe you should talk about it.”

“About what?”

“About liking him. Like, what was the big deal with him?” James leaned against the back of the couch. Grabbing the tablet from Bim’s hands, he zoomed in on Matthias’ face. He paused the video, leaving the image of Matthias in a very unflattering position, then turned to Bim. “Or, rather, what _is_ the big deal with him…?”

Bim was blushing already, and he nodded. “Still trying to get over it. Not sure it’s working.”

“Mmm,” his friend said. “So, about him. What’s the deal.”

Bim sighed wistfully and leaned back as well. “He’s attractive, funny, kind, sure of himself-”

“More like conceited if I remember correctly.”

“No, no, he’s- it’s an act he puts on. For comedy. Which makes sense since when I met him, when I made my first appearance, we were doing something with Cyndago and so it was a comedy thing, but no, he’s actually really sweet.” Bim reached out for the tablet, but thought better of it and pulled his hand back.

Jim shrugged and handed back the tablet. “Fine, fine. I’ll have to watch some vids myself to see if I think you’re right, or just blinded by love or some garbage.”

“Ha, okay,” Bim chuckled. He zoomed the screen out and started the video again, on mute this time. “He was awesome. Cared genuinely about his friends and family. I like to watch his videos still, see what he’s doing. And sometimes his vlogs. His family is…” Bim smiled sadly. “They’re all really sweet.” Gesturing towards the tablet, he grumbled to himself. “They’re also all incredibly attractive. And attached.”

“Life’s unfair,” James mused. Glancing at the tablet himself, honestly, he had to agree. Everyone Matthias worked with or was related to seemed to be attractive. Poor Bim and his tendency towards crushes must be suffering more than he thought, considering the blush spreading across his cheeks as he talked.

“Yeah,” Bim said, seemingly oblivious to how red his face had gotten.

“Y’know, buddy…you may have ruined your appetite,” James said, pointing to the empty tub of ice cream, “but Jimmy and I are going out for dinner, maybe you’d like to join us? After you dress in something other than sweats maybe.” He stood and offered a hand to his friend.

Bim looked James in the eyes finally, surprised. Slowly, he nodded, closed out of Matthias’ video, and took James’ hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A short one this time, dialogue heavy, but hope you enjoyed Bim's inability to have a crush on someone available!))


	5. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Promt: Wilford suddenly losses his voice, sickness to much shouting catching up, and everyone panics, Wilford included.
> 
> ((Okay, not everyone panics. But some people.))

They were live in one minute, and for the first time in a long time, Wilford Warfstache was nervous about going on air.

Bim was taking the day off, due to being sick. Everyone else assumed it was his turn to catch Mark’s cold again, and while each ego felt bad for the guy, they each couldn’t help but be a bit relieved it wasn't them. Bim had passed on his timeslot for the day to Wilford, reluctantly, and so Wilford had prepared a bonus interview with the first person he managed to contact. He’d initially gotten the King of the Squirrels, but as it turned out, he was busy, but he referred Wilford to a friend of his who was able to go on the show. So instead, Warfstache found himself sitting opposite a large gray squirrel, who was more focused on the acorn grasped in its paws than in actually being interviewed.

And besides the strange interviewee, Wilford was feeling a bit under the weather. He’d been trying to do his vocal warmups when he had to stop. His throat felt… weird. Scratchy? But he’d shaken it off. Bim was the sick one this time, not him, never him, his ‘immune system,’ as it were, was top notch. He just stopped the exercises and chose to save his voice for the show. 

The lights in the studio dimmed, and the murmur of the live audience (being the crew of eldritch creatures and the Jims) silenced as the spotlights focused on Wilford and the squirrel.

“Five, four…” The camera person held up three extremities, and mouthed the final three numbers as they put them down one by one. “We’re on,” they whispered.

Warfstache had already turned to the camera, mustache already twitching with anticipation. “Good evening, ladies and ge--” He stopped suddenly. The scratching in his throat had gotten worse, and he briefly launched into a coughing fit. The camera person looked concerned, but Wilford waved them off. “Oof. Sorry about- about that. Ladies, gentlemen, and other confi-- con--” Somehow the scratch in his throat was now worse, and this time he put a hand to his throat reflexively. 

“Are you okay to go on?” the camera person hissed, and Wilford nodded, raising an eyebrow nearly to his hairline as if to imply he was surprised they would ask such a question.

He cleared his throat - and _wow that hurt_ , it shouldn’t hurt to do that - and started talking. It felt like his throat was on fire, but the show must go on, and he couldn’t be the sick one, that was Bim. Definitely. The squirrel, at least, had put down the nut, and was looking at him curiously.

Not curiously enough to provide any answers to questions. Only a few questions in, Wilford noticed the camera person waving frantically. He gave up and turned to them, anger in his eyes. “What, Steve?! I am on air,” he said quietly, and they flinched at the dangerous expression on his face. Recovering, Steve cupped their hand to their auditory system and pointed up. Warfstache frowned. He thought he’d been talking loudly, as per usual, but then again he had been focusing on pushing through the pain in his throat. 

“Anyway,” he began again, but this time nothing came out. No, something came out - a hoarse sounding wheeze that, apparently, sounded painful even to the Jims standing way in the back of the studio. 

_No,_ thought Wilford, _No, no, no, I can’t lose my voice. No._

He tried again to speak, and there was another wheeze, weaker than the first. He looked up at Steve, and all three of their eyes were looking very concerned. Taking a painful, deep breath, Warfstache slid his hand across his throat.

“CUT,” shouted Steve, catching on, and another crew member quickly replaced the live camera footage with a ‘technical difficulties’ screen. The Jims were already on their way over and so Wilford stood to meet them. 

“Ouch, that sounds bad, boss,” Weatherman Jim said, patting Wilford on the back. “I could have sworn Bim was the only one getting sick this time around. What… do we do now, though? This is bad. Right?”

Warfstache glowered as Newscaster Jim threw an arm around his shoulders. “Let us take over your sections today. Or cancel ‘em. Or… have the squirrel do it, I don’t know. You need rest.” The arm around his shoulders started to guide Wilford towards the exit of the studio. He wanted to protest, but having accepted that he may be sick, it was as if his body had completely given up. His head hurt, he could sense snot collecting on his mustache (disgusting, he’d need a shower), and Jim was right. He needed rest.

They passed some egos on the way to the dressing rooms. Those who had tuned into Warfstache’s show were concerned enough to come and check up on him. Bop showed up panicked, and, once informed of the situation by the Jims, he wished him well, knowing how important his voice was to him. Google - drawn there by the reports of ‘technical difficulties’ most likely - offered a consolidating pat on the back, citing his own experience with voice problems. Wilford would have thanked them for their concern, but he _couldn’t speak_ and all, and he hoped Mark got better soon or he would have words for him.

The only encounter that shook Wilford was when the Host came by. He looked panicked, his bandages had fresh blood on them, and his voice was shaking. “The Host heard that Wilford has lost his voice,” said the Host, reaching out for Warfstache’s arm. He met him halfway, letting Host touch him and get the full story. _Not Dark,_ he thought as strongly as he could. _Just sick._

“... You are only sick? Like Bim? Like Mark?” the Host questioned, visibly having relaxed a little. 

“He’s gonna cough up his lungs or something if we don’t get him to go chill out with Bim soon,” Jim said. “We’ve got him, don’t worry.”

The Host nodded. Before he pulled away from Wilford’s grasp, Warfstache gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. The blind man sighed in relief and turned, walking back the way he had come.

-

They’d gotten into Bim’s dressing room before they all heard an explosion coming from the main studio. Steve’s voice echoed down the hall, angry and horrible, and Wilford sighed knowing he’d have to create some more crew members when Steve was finished. Then he sighed again, in relief this time, as the Jims led him to the couch in Bim’s room. Bim was already there, curled up and asleep. Wilford gladly collapsed onto the couch, ready to sleep away the cold. 

“We’ll go see if the studio is entirely on fire,” News Jim said, leading his twin out of the room.”

“And if it isn’t,” Weather Jim said with a wink, “we’ll make sure it is.”

The door closed and Wilford closed his eyes. That helped with the headache at least. He listened to Bim, breathing nasally, and smiled. Having one of the head egos out of commission for a day or so was going to screw up a lot of things, but it was pretty nice to get a break. Not that he would ever admit it. His show was his life, he loved it, but honestly…

Not having a voice and being forced to nap because of it was way better than trying to interview a squirrel.


	6. A Trip to the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: Prom: Google and a few peeps going out someplace and the other egos realizing he has the social grace of a bread stick and thats one more mall there baned from
> 
> ((Note: This chapter, as stated in the first sentence, takes place Nov. 2014, when the only 'main' Egos seen on the channel were Dark, Warfstache, the Host, Silver Shepherd, and a week-old Google IRL. Google seems slightly 'OOC' for most of this because he's playing it safe and keeping to himself until he gets to know the others more.))

It was November 8th, 2014, and the egos were preparing for Warfstache’s birthday party. Well, not his birthday. No one was sure what he was, exactly, but they were sure he hadn’t just popped into existence because Mark had made a video about him. He certainly wasn’t just two years old. It was more of an anniversary of his first appearance on the channel than anything, but since it was all they had to work with, they decided it was his birthday.

The mall that was near the office - anything was ‘near’ the office if you focused hard enough - was full of plenty of stores, all run by strange eldritch creatures like those that were the crew for the studio Warfstache worked at. The patrons, on the other hand, were extremely minor egos. Most of them came into existence from a one-off video that Mark had done, being simply Mark in a costume, but each had enough fans to justify the creation of an ego. There weren’t that many, but in one of the rare moments Dark came out of his office, he had cryptically assured the others that many more would come along. 

Heading up the gift-finding group was the Host, who was working hard to make his way around the mall without bumping into people. Silver Shepherd followed close behind, occasionally reaching out an arm as if to help guide the Host, then thinking better of it and pulling it back. He knew that the Host wasn’t fond of being helped, made to feel like he was incapable of navigating on his own. 

Shepherd kept a careful eye on the third ego of their group. He was looking around the mall with a blank expression, eyes glowing faintly through the shaggy hair on his head. The big ‘G’ on his chest was glowing, as well. He twitched occasionally, stuttering, as if he was… lagging. 

Shepherd wasn’t one of the smarter egos, he knew that, but he knew enough about engineering to figure that their newest ego was a bit broken. He had appeared one day in the office, out of nowhere. Well, no, the Host had announced his arrival, but no one expected _him_. He'd appeared twitching, sparking, looking around at his new surroundings with a blank expression. He said his name was Google IRL, and spouted something about a secondary objective that, if Silver recalled, involved destroying mankind. 

Dark had immediately smiled and said something about welcoming him to the office, the main office, where the famous Egos worked, and where no other ego since the Host had been _instantly_ accepted into the group. Wilford, too, seemed fascinated by Google, asking him about what he had been doing before he'd appeared - he wanted to know the contents of Mark’s newest video that had created an ego that wanted to destroy mankind. 

Shepherd had been a bit more apprehensive, but why wouldn't he be? He was a superhero, he himself had an alter ego - he knew about having an entirely secret life. Google acted innocent enough, had simply taken in information provided to him, maintained a straight poker face other than the glitching. But that secondary objective gave Shepherd pause, made him worry that there was more to Google than meets the eye. Something that Darkiplier was eager to get on his side.

“How may- may I assist, S-Silver Shepherd-d?” 

Silver was startled out of his memories by the mechanical voice of Google. Flushing underneath his mask, he realized he'd been staring at Google the entire time. “No, no, Google, it's nothing, sorry. I’m okay, Google, don't worry.”

Google’s form glitched out a bit more at that, and Shepherd wished he could take it back. The Host had informed them all that Google had an aversion to the word ‘okay’, for reasons he would not share, but this seemed to be a more severe reaction than other slip ups he had made. Then all of a sudden his form snapped still. “Affirmat-t-tive,” Google said, and Shepherd could have sworn his eyebrows had moved slightly down, conveying a slight hint of irritation. And that his voice had sounded a bit colder as well.

Regardless of the consequences, Shepherd walked forward and grabbed onto the Host’s arm, deciding it was safer than continuing to converse with Google.

* * *

Some of Mark’s egos had more murderous tendencies, so naturally there was an entire store dedicated to weaponry. The store was a common haunt of Warfstache’s, and so they had agreed to start gift hunting there.

Knives, guns, swords, axes, maces, and for some reason non-lethal Nerf guns adorned the walls and shelves. The creature manning the purchase counter had its back facing the group as they entered, and was busy hacking away at a flour sack dummy with a sword.

“I will try to see if I can find out what Wilford would enjoy best out of these,” the Host said, and moved to a corner of the store. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to narrate to himself, passing his ‘gaze’ over the contents of the store. Shepherd looked away, not wanting to look at the gross bandage on the Host’s face. It was soaked in blood, crimson and looking both crusty and uncomfortably wet. Wilford had often suggested that the Host get his bandage changed, but he’d always balk at that and refuse to let it be touched.

“I w-will ask-k the sto-o-re owner where to find- to find a pink gun,” Google said suddenly. Silver was surprised. That was a surprisingly good gift idea for someone who had only met the other egos about a week ago. The surprise apparently showed on his face, because Google blinked and looked carefully at him. “I have gathered data on- on Wilford-d Warfsta-a-ache, and determined that this is-s the best gift.” 

“Ah,” Shepherd said, and nodded his agreement. “Sure. I’ll look around for one on my own.” He pointed a gloved hand to the section of the store with various guns lining the walls. “Over there.”

There was a pause, and Google’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed Shepherd’s arm. He grimaced and tried to pull away, but the robot’s grip was too strong even for the superhero. “No,” Google said, “Come wi-ith me.”

“Um,” Silver said, and made another futile attempt to free himself. He chuckled a little, nervously, sneaking a glance over at the Host who was still narrating quietly. “Okay, Google, um, ha, just... let go of me, and I’ll follow you.” The response was immediate. Google let go, snapping his arm back down at his side, and the irritated expression from before was back. He turned, then, and moved towards the counter. He stood there for a while, watching the store clerk beat up the dummy. Shepherd rocked back and forth on his heels for a whole two minutes while this went on. Finally he poked Google on the back. “You need to get its attention, Google.”

Google nodded. “Creature,” he called out.

The store clerk’s arm dropped, the sword’s tip dragging across the ground. It turned to face them, its eye showing a degree of irritation much like Google had. “Ego,” it said in a gravelly voice, mimicking Google’s blunt ‘greeting’. 

“We n-need a pink-k-k gun. Now.”

“I need you to be a bit more polite.”

Silver checked back at the Host. He was no longer mumbling to himself, but he was staring off into space. Looks like he’d be of no help.

“Where are the pink guns-s-s,” Google said. Shepherd noticed that his voice had gotten a tad bit lower.

“Where the other guns are,” the clerk said, spinning the sword around in its hand. The tip of the sword came dangerously close to Google. Shepherd squeaked and subtly moved behind Google, but the robot didn’t even flinch.

Google pointed at the shelves behind the counter, above the dummy leaking flour. "There is one behind-hind you," he said. Sure enough, a bright pink pistol was displayed there. "Get-t it."

"Find a different one, I'm not getting it for you," the creature said. It leaned forward and looked at Shepherd. "Your buddy needs to learn some manners, Mr. Shepherd."

“You, Mx. Creature,” Google said, “are being very- very- very unhelpful-l.” Shepherd couldn’t see his face, but seeing the suddenly scared look on the clerk’s face, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Google took a step forward - the clerk held up the sword, now blatantly pointing it at Google - and said, “You are also-so being r-rude, threatening-g, and- and _very stupid._ ”

“Google IRL beats up the clerk and steals the gun from behind the counter, as well as a silver knife for the trouble,” the Host said from behind them - he was actually closer to the door than he had been before, when had he moved? - and mere seconds later, Google sprung towards the poor clerk.

* * *

“Google!” Silver shouted, breathing heavily as he attempted to keep pace with the robotic ego. “You can’t just beat people up! And you can’t steal things either, you need to pay for them!”

“Says who-o?” Google said in return, clutching the gun in his hands and quickly scanning for the exit as they ran. 

“Oh, I dunno, society!” Shepherd said. He could hear the Host behind him, narrating something about the security guards being right on their tails. He didn’t have the energy to look behind them and check for himself. “I’m a superhero, I don’t want to be an accessory to crime!”

Google glanced back at him. “But?”

“But,” Shepherd said without thinking, “this _is_ kind of thrilling.”

The blank look on Google’s face, the one he had greeted nearly every ego with, the robotic face that even Dark had assumed stayed neutral at all times, shifted. Google grinned, really grinned, at Silver from behind his thin-rimmed glasses, and then he laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, free from the glitches that perforated his speech. “You can be an excep-cep-ception to my secondary object-ive, Silver Shepherd-d.”

Shepherd wasn’t sure what that meant, but he felt happy.


	7. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR ROGUE ONE IN THIS CHAPTER
> 
> A shorter one this time around, I'm going away until 7/9/17 so I can't put any chapters up here. Hopefully may get some written tomorrow and put them on my Tumblr though!

Doctor Iplier wanted to strangle Google Green, but he was too busy rubbing comforting circles into Weatherman Jim’s - Jimmy’s - back. James, the other Jim, was helping, patting his stressed twin’s arm. The movie of choice tonight was Rogue One, and so it was only the four of them, the big Star Wars fans of the group, crammed onto the couch.

“I will run no longer, but you must save yourself.”

“No, no, no,” Jimmy was muttering to himself, eyes glued to the screen. “No,” he said with more emphasis, tears welling up.

Doc turned his attention to the TV as well, and frowned. “Is he serious?” he said, gesturing with his free hand towards it.

On screen, Saw Gerrera was shouting after Jyn and Cassian to “save the rebellion,” as a huge wall of planet barrelled towards his location. “Save the dream,” Gerrera said to himself, as the camera cut away to follow Jyn and Cassian to their ship.

Jimmy was becoming more and more distressed as the scene continued. Green, however, was squinting intently at the television, and had that look on his face that Doc knew would lead to some sort of ‘smart’ comment. Green had been watching some of Mark’s videos when a Cinema Sins video had happened to be the recommended video. It all went downhill from there. Privately, Doc and the Jims had confided in each other that movie nights would be far more enjoyable without Green’s commentary, but they couldn’t just tell him not to come.

For now, though, Green was keeping the comments to himself.

The scene continued, and to Doc’s surprise, it cut back to Gerrera, who was now outside facing down the giant wave of dirt and planet crust as Rogue One took off. Jimmy let out a squeak - was there going to be a last minute rescue? - and Doc sat up straighter, watching curiously.

But then the character took off his breathing tube. The camera zoomed in. The lighting grew darker, with Gerrera looking straight at his incoming doom until the last moment. Then it cut away.

Google Green had the presence of mind to pause the movie at the first sob coming from Jimmy.

“Why?!” Jimmy shouted, in Doc’s opinion in an overly dramatic fashion. He put his head in his hands and James, who had viewed the movie once already so that he could be prepared to properly comfort his brother, simply nodded solemnly. “He didn’t deserve to die like that! I mean, he helped poor Cassian and Jyn, but why did he have to die?!”

“He didn’t,” Green finally said. He raised an eyebrow, looking incredibly unimpressed. “He said he ‘was done running,’ which is simply a personal reason. He could have easily been overpowered and taken on the ship, he could have been convinced to go with them, or he could have made his own way of escape. Such random plot devices tend to appear at convenient moments thanks to the writers, just like random characters dying for plot.” He looked at Jimmy, who was sniffling heavily, and shrugged. “His death was completely unnecessary and avoidable.”

Jimmy sobbed again, and after a glare at Green, Doctor Iplier went back to rubbing circles into his back. It was all he could do from automatically proclaiming that Gerrera was dead, but he figured everyone was overly aware of that at this point.

 

A few minutes passed. Jimmy was calmer, but still too distracting to return to the movie. Green, looking a bit uncomfortable, stood from the couch, grabbed the popcorn bowl he’d been hoarding, and handed it to Jimmy. Jimmy looked confused, but met his gaze.

“I meant to empathize with you, Jim.” Green kept looking at Jimmy for a few seconds, but finally broke away. “I suppose I could have been considered… insensitive. In how I did so. I too agree that Gerrera’s death was pointless, he could have added much to the film. It was not meant to be a simply objective observation. I apologize.”

Jimmy looked like he wanted to both respond and cry some more, but he had started to shovel popcorn into his mouth and could do neither. He nodded his head, and offered the bowl back. Green instead handed it to Doc and sat down again.

The disaster handled, James signaled Green to start up the movie again. He then turned to Doc, meeting his eyes behind Jimmy’s head, and gave him a look that the latter could tell meant they had worse deaths and reactions incoming towards the end.

Perhaps they could all pretend to fall asleep before the final battle, and postpone movie night - and dealing with Jimmy’s reactions - until a later date…


	8. A Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: prompt: dark's voice cracks at a meeting
> 
> ((A shorter one this time, was busy writing up headcanons on my tumblr, and wasn't sure what else to do with this prompt. Other stuff coming though!))

All the Egos were gathered once again in the meeting room. With the fans so acutely attuned to the hints they were all leaving in videos, they had already created several new egos and boosted the popularity of some others. Bop, the Jims, and Bing were introduced and accepted quickly as ‘new’ additions, and fans had created an entirely new ego themselves from Mark’s video about making art. Now they were even backtracking to Mark’s old obscure live videos and creating egos out of those. The creation of entirely new egos hadn’t been a planned occurrence, but Darkiplier had taken the opportunity, especially after meeting the… troubled… Artiplier.

He’d called all the main Egos together, the ones invited to review Markiplier TV (which, despite having given them all a boost in attention and new allies, Dark maintained was ridiculous and largely an unhelpful project.) They were bickering, socializing, wasting time, so when the clock struck one o'clock, Dark cleared his throat.

The Egos had been around long enough that they were practically trained to go silent upon hearing him. They all turned at once to face him, all for once looking eager to be present. They'd each had an encounter with Artiplier or Chef Iplier or any of the other ‘new’ egos, one Dark dismissed from the building pretty quickly after their arrival. Each was excited about what would happen with these developments, and what effect it would have on their plans. The subjects in question were on the floor below in the lounge, with the Jims, Bing, Bop, and Yandere.

“Welcome,” Dark said, straightening his tie. “As you all know, we have added many new egos to our number. Those who were already present in the building before debuting in Wilford’s… project will continue to work in the building, as will Bing and Yandere.” Wilford gave him an exaggerated wink from his own seat at the other end of the table, and Dark had to make a special effort not to roll his eyes.

“The other new guys are gonna be hanging out with all the rest then?” Wilford asked, twirling his mustache. “I do sometimes wonder how you determine this, ah, hierarchy of yours.”

Once again, Dark had to take a deep breath and keep himself under control. No one’s expression changed, so his shell hadn’t cracked at least. Wilford was the one person who got on his nerves the most, who knew how to push his buttons, and who was the person who could likely sow seeds of insubordination the easiest. Questioning how Dark did things was crossing a line, and from the grin on the talk show host’s face, he knew it full well.

“Come now, Will,” Dark said, softening his voice and looking around at all the other egos seated at the table. “You know I only keep the strongest of our number by our side. To better further our goals. The most important ones, the most popular ones.”

This was almost a complete lie. Plenty of the egos at the table had been forgotten by most of Mark’s fans before Markiplier TV came out. And there were egos who did not work in the building who were stronger than people like Silver Shepherd or Ed Edgar, who had no specific powers to their names. But from the pleased smiles on the other ego’s faces, it seemed as if Dark had recaptured their attention and appreciation as he had intended.

“Our plan is, in fact, coming together. The fans practically adore us, and are smarter than I gave them credit for. They picked up on hints of our influence on his videos, and have been drawing some remarkably correct conclusions. And yet none seem all that concerned about these conclusions.”

A small snort of laughter came from his right. He turned slowly to the Host, who was smiling a little, apparently unconcerned with covering up his amusement. “The Host is not sure about that.”

Of course. The Host was the other person who could cause people to doubt Dark’s plan. He thought he had warned him from interfering, but apparently the Host would have to be taught a lesson later-

“I am not sure either,” Google said suddenly. This time, Dark felt his shell crack a tiny bit as he turned abruptly to his left. “We have been monitoring social media, and it seems that many fans are aware that something may be wrong.”

Doctor Iplier nodded. “I've lost contact with Doctor Shneeplestein recently. I'm worried. I think Jack’s egos are up to something.”

“Affirmative,” Google said. “As we’ve searched the Internet, we have noticed that Anti has not been subtle with his influences on Jack, ranging from commenting to using Jack’s tumblr and instagram to actually appearing again in his videos.”

Despite pursing his lips, a groan of frustration escaped from Dark. “So the fans are naturally more alert, then. Fine.” He straightened up, and the egos gave him their attention again. “What we do to combat this, to assure fans that everything is fine, is a very important step moving forward. So pay attention,” he said, glaring subtly at Wilford, who smirked and gave him a two-finger salute.

“We need to do our best to keep our influence in his videos to a minimum-!” Dark’s voice sharply rose an octave on the final word, and he swore inwardly. His hands clenched to fists as he heard Wilford guffaw at the other end of the table. He felt his form crack as the other egos, emboldened by Warfstache’s vocal amusement, began to snicker as well.

“Meeting adjourned,” he growled, and teleported to his office. He’d have to humiliate the others now, for their audacity to laugh, but that could wait until his own humiliation was less fresh in his mind.


	9. Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: The egos, or just Dark and Wilford reacting to fire works ((Sent in on 7/4/17))

Ego Inc. changed structure pretty often. No one was sure how many floors there were in total, as more were added at the whim of the reality benders in residence, and there was no one elevator that could take you to every floor. Regardless, the roof always looked the same, no matter how many floors were added to the building. That included Bim’s greenhouse on the far corner, the grill and picnic tables under a canopy, and the mismatched lawn chairs, lounge chairs and folding chairs scattered around the flat roof.

Tonight, the Fourth of July, the chairs were organized in a line at the edge of the roof, facing out towards the city. 

The sky was dark, but Oliver was putting up string lights around the edge of the roof to provide light and warn others away from the edge of the roof. Regardless, Silver and Doc were sitting on the edge, dangling their legs and chatting. Silver’s mask was off, now a strange looking mass of cloth at his neck, and Doc had shed his doctor’s coat and scrubs, wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead (though he insisted on keeping his head mirror). Bim floated nearby, looking more casual in a slightly unbuttoned button-up and jeans. He stood near his greenhouse, making sure no one else approached. (He had been busy all week cultivating some new mystery seeds brought to him by Wilford, and Bim didn’t want anyone disturbing the seedlings.)

Chef Iplier stood at a huge grill, preparing hot dogs and trying to keep a hungry Ed Edgar from snatching them. Artiplier was sitting at his easel on the corner of the roof, painting the rooftop scene. Wilford was wearing his red and white striped suit, and had added a blue bow tie and a star spangled hat to “fully flesh out” the outfit. He was attempting to set up a couple firecrackers that he had taken from the Googles, who, except for Oliver, were down in the park by the building setting up a proper, safe display of fireworks. Meanwhile, other egos like Yandere, Bing, the Jims, Bop, and some of the more obscure egos were standing around the roof in little groups, chatting and killing time until the Googles were ready. 

The Host, meanwhile, was sitting in a chair narrating, smiling softly as he spoke of the friendly chats and joking around that surrounded him. So often, Egos Inc was sullen, serious; everyone working hard, or dealing with their own inner demons, or plotting evil plots. Without the intervention of Wilford, Host had no doubt that things would very rarely be fun around there. As it was, Wilford was often busy with the Jims and Bim in the studio, and wasn’t around to lighten the mood for the rest of them. So to see everyone there, chatting, partying? Host was pleased to be able to narrate such an event.

“Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

Host heard the telltale ringing in his ears, felt the air around him turn cold as his hair stood on end, and he nodded, stopping his narration. “Yes. The ‘lesser’ egos you invited help lighten the mood considerably.”

Dark sighed, leaning back in the chair he had taken beside the Host. He remained in his full suit despite the summer heat and the more casual atmosphere, but seemed entirely comfortable regardless. “They’re all idiots, that’s why. No real drive, no real motivation, they just… exist.”

“They exist to make people laugh,” the Host corrected. “Most are from one-off comedy sketches, if you’ll recall.”

A small hum of indifference came from Dark, who steepled his fingers as he observed the rooftop. He sat in silence, and after a while Host quietly began to narrate again. They watched as the King of the Squirrels placed a flower crown on the head of Dadiplier, who ruffled his hair affectionately. King then placed a paper crown on Night Guard, proudly declaring him the “King of Five Nights at Freddy’s”. Guard snickered and slung one arm around King’s shoulders, and the other around the shoulders of Survivalist, fresh from Monster Gulch. Google Oliver had finished stringing lights, and was currently using a laptop to select music, with help from Bop. 

The silence from Dark was uncomfortable for Host, and he narrated louder, focusing on the park where the Googles were. “Google is ready with the fireworks,” Host finally said. 

“Good,” Dark said. “I was worried Wilford would figure out how to get those fireworks actually working in the meantime.” Host chuckled a little in agreement.

From across the roof, Oliver stood and amplified his voice, shouting that the display was ready to begin. The two men stood in unison, Host picking up both of their chairs. Dark placed a firm hand on Host’s shoulder and guided him towards the edge of the roof, where the latter placed the chairs down facing the park. The other egos brought over chairs as well, with Doc taking a seat on the other side of Host, but as it turned out there were too many egos and not enough chairs. Bim attempted to turn pieces of litter into more seating, with varying degrees of success, while Wilford pulled some folding chairs out of his top hat. Eventually everyone was seated, and Oliver gave his brothers the go-ahead.

Stark against the black sky, a small white glitter rose from the park trailing a plume of gray smoke. When it reached just above the roof of Egos Inc, it exploded with a resounding BOOM, red sparks flying out in a circular pattern. Quickly following the first firework were several more, in blue, white, and more red. Some of them exploded into classic circles, others were sparklers, and an odd star shape was scattered throughout the display. 

The Host felt Dark jump next to him at the first boom, and though he controlled himself afterwards, Host could tell the other ego was a bit jittery. 

“Don’t like loud noises?” Host said softly when the fireworks lulled for a moment. 

Dark sighed, “I’m fine. Loud noises aren’t-” A firework went off and, unprepared, Dark’s shell cracked a bit. “-a problem,” he hissed.

The Host tried to keep a straight face, but a nearly indiscernible smirk appeared regardless.

Dark went silent again, waiting for the next firework, and Host turned his attention, and narration, to the other egos. Wilford had, thankfully, put down his stolen fireworks in exchange for gazing out at the display and was busy turning the fireworks into pink mustaches. Of course Wilford would love loud, exploding, colorful things. The other egos were showing varying levels of entertainment and fear - King was clearly wanting to be elsewhere, and Survivalist and Guard both looked more and more tense with each explosion, while Yandere seemed entranced, clutching the arm of Artie, who had dragged his easel over and was painting the fireworks with inhuman speed.

The Host, who rarely had opportunities to simply narrate things in detail like colors, was enjoying every second of it. He ignored the loud noises, the rumbling in his chest at every explosion, and focused on the vivid colors of the fireworks. The bright red, the ocean blue, the bright white, Wilford’s trademark bubblegum pink - colors were the one things the Host missed being able to actually see. (And he wasn’t above admitting that knowing they bothered Dark made him happy.)

Host felt a hand on his shoulder. Not Dark’s, much softer and without his oppressing aura. Dr. Iplier’s, he realized. Something was placed in his lap, and from the smell Host could tell it was a hot dog. He smiled at his friend, who he could tell had moved his chair closer to him. Ignoring the agitated aura coming from Dark was easier with Doc by his side. 

The two of them sat, eating their hot dogs together, watching the colors explode into the sky until the Googles ran out of fireworks.


	10. Under the Full Moon/Sepsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt for egotober, a project which I soon abandoned, but oh well. Featuring Bill from WEREWOLVES Starring Kate Micucci, Felicia Day, and Jeff Lewis.

Bill was young when he was bitten. It had been a calm night, a quiet one, as the boy lay outside his home, staring at the full moon shining in the sky. He was drifting to sleep, his eyes growing heavier despite his mother warning him not to fall asleep outside at night. He knew the stories of course - the warnings about the werewolves. Adults were more of a mind to be skeptical, to laugh at the idea, to claim that such stories were only meant to scare children into staying out at night. But Bill and the other children in the village believed in mystical creatures wholeheartedly. Werewolves were not beyond the realm of possibility to their young imaginations. 

But Bill, listening to the crickets in the wheat field and the soft snorting of pigs in the pen at the butcher shop, fell asleep all the same. He didn’t hear the quiet footsteps come up behind him, nor the harsh whispering of, “Just get ‘im, Harvey, I’m hungry!”

He did hear his own shouts of alarm as he felt rough hands jerk him to his feet. He felt claws dig into his arms. He felt something sharp, something painful, dig into his shoulder and TEAR, and it tore again and again and again and he was screaming but another pair of hands were covering his mouth.

“Leave him,” he heard eventually through a haze of near-unconsciousness. A female voice. A familiar one? Bill was too focused on the horrible pain to tell. “The body will get found in the morning and we’ll go pick it up after that and go eat.” The hands holding Bill up let go, and he whimpered as the claws detached and allowed more blood to spill on the ground. The footsteps ran away, scampering, with a gait that sounded like a large dog’s.

The full moon, though still shining brightly, had not been enough for Bill to identify his assailants. Now it sat in the sky, silently looking down at the mangled little boy who had been peacefully enjoying its light minutes before.

Bill waited to die. He knew that was all that he could hope for. His mother hadn’t heard the commotion, and the neighbors likely knew better than to come and see what was going on, if they’d heard at all. Everything hurt, so much - his shoulder, the scratches on his face. But he thought he should be going numb from pain. Feel nothing. People who had been attacked by wolves in the village seemed so peaceful as they died, so why did Bill feel like his blood was boiling? His arm felt puffy, it hurt so much, he was breathing so so hard, why wasn’t he dead?

The moon felt oppressive now. Staring down at him. He closed his eyes, the moon disappearing into darkness, as he waited for death.

* * *

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious if we’re the ones to find the body?”

“I'm hungry, Harvey, I don’t want to wait. And who says we can’t just take it away and eat and no one knows he’s dead? Maybe we can avoid trying to frame someone today if no one knows anyone died.”

“Yeah, I- I guess so.”

The man and the woman walked gently along the path to the little cottage where little Billy lived with his mother. They caught the scent of blood in the air, and Harvey had to visibly calm himself down. He’d been the one to take the kill last night, and the rule of their little pack of two was that whoever didn’t get the kill got to eat first. They’d had that rule for decades. Werewolves weren’t always the smartest creatures, as Jane tried to assure him constantly, but they did have loyalty to traditions and their packs.

They rounded the corner and saw the small body lying in the grass, still bloodied and with massive bite wounds on his shoulder. Jane wrinkled her nose at the sight of blueish skin surrounding the wound. “Sepsis. Shoulda gone for the jugular, Harvey. That’s an awful way to go.”

“Yeah…” Harvey crouched by the body and frowned. “Hey. Jane? We- We didn’t tear his clothes up this much did we?”

“What? No. What do you mean?” Harvey gestured to the body, which had only underwear on. The rest of his clothes were torn to shreds, scattered around the bloodied grass. “I- I don’t know, doesn’t matter, just grab it and go, people are going to wake up soon.”

Harvey hoisted the small body onto his shoulder and shuddered a bit. He and Jane had only gone for Bill because he was an easy target that night. But the deed was done. He dashed off into the woods, followed closely by Jane.

They set the body down in a clearing, and, out of sight of the village, morphed into their more wolfish forms. About to begin eating, they froze as they heard a small whimper coming from what they expected to be their meal.

Jane said a word that Harvey would never expect coming from the mouth of a lady, even a ravenous werewolf lady, and grabbed the boy’s head. He was breathing. Shallowly, but he was breathing. She lifted Bill’s top lip, then flopped backwards into the grass and groaned. “Should have gone for the jugular,” she said again. “He survived.”

“So, we just kill him, right?”

“No, Harvey,” Jane said, and moved back towards the boy. “He turned.”

“Oh.”

Bill whimpered again and opened his eyes a little bit, squinting into the sun. “Mommy…?”

Jane sighed, steeled herself, and leaned over into Bill’s field of vision. “Nope. Sorry, little pup, something, uh, something happened.”


	11. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Egotober prompt.

The two egos lay on separate operating tables, hold each other’s hand as they stared at the ceiling. Except for those hands, they were both restrained, strapped to the table. Neither made a sound. They just squeezed each other’s hands and stared into the blinding lights above them.

From the shadows, two more egos stepped forward. Each wore a lab coat and scrubs, but beyond that had no similarities in appearance. However, they each had a striking resemblance to one of the “patients”. The dark haired man - a doctor? A scientist? Likely not licensed either way - went to stand by the dark haired patient, while the doctor with green hair adjusted a surgical mask.

“Are we testing medication or doing work with the saws, Schneep?” the first doctor said. He brushed his fingers over an array of sharp tools arranged on a table next to the patients.

“Vy not both?” Doctor Schneeplestein said, picking up a syringe of neon green liquid and flicking it to remove air bubbles. “Now,” he said as he approached the patient with his own face, “go ahead and decide vat you vill do, Doctor Iplier.”

As Doc picked up a small saw, a scared whimper came from his patient. Doc stopped, and gently pet the other ego’s hair, shushing him. “It’s just an experiment,” he said. “Look at your friend over there!”

The patient looked at his friend, who was being stuck with the needle Schneeple had been holding. He had a silly grin on his face, despite the fact that he was missing some teeth. Then the man felt pressure in his shoulder as Doc suddenly cut into his arm with the saw. He squirmed, but did not scream, as the arm disconnected from his body. Doc picked up the arm, looked at it from every angle, and frowned. “I didn’t believe you, Schneep, but you were right.”

Schneeple looked up from sticking his own patient with another needle and observing the pieces of flesh flaking off his neck. “About vat?”

“No blood, and seemingly no pain.” Doc turned back to his patient. “Right buddy?”

The patient grunted, and suddenly the arm in Doc’s grasp flailed wildly, slapping him in the face with enough force to knock him down. Schneeple and the patients began to laugh as the arm continued to slap the doctor in the face.

“Ow - hey - listen - Hey!” Doc finally thought to drop the arm, which wiggled and grabbed its way up to the table and arranged itself back where it should be. Doc stood and sighed. “I guess I deserved that for not warning you. But it didn’t hurt, right Bobbie?”

The zombie ego grunted again. “Tickles.”

The other ego next to him giggled. “Tickles!”

Schneeple sighed fondly and ruffled his patient’s hair. “Yes, Robbie, zee cutting of limbs tickles. Apparently.” The two doctors moved to release their patients, then Doc went to grab a needle and thread to attach Bobbie’s arm again. “Did zee serum assist?”

Robbie sat up and patted his face. “No…. pieces…. come off…”

“Good!”

“And we confirmed Bobbie and Robbie can’t feel pain.”

“Yes, zee experiment seems to be a success.”


	12. The Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I explain my personal headcanon for the Egos Inc building.

Egos Inc. is, to summarize, a building created with the aid of Wilford Warfstache. And with all the powerful reality benders in residence, and the other entities that come to visit, the building has naturally gained some form of sentience in the time that it has existed. Not enough for direct communication - it isn’t an artificial intelligence like the Googles and Bing - but it has its ways of making a point.

Usually, an Ego is able to make their way around and get where they need to go with few detours. Other times, the ego finds themself stuck climbing ten flights of stairs rather than taking the elevator that had been there yesterday if they’d been a jerk to someone recently. Then, of course, when wandering through the building without a purpose in mind, an ego can find themself on stairways leading to nowhere, in halls that never seem to end, or in rooms that seem to be like a small chaotic pocket of Wilford’s realm inside.

King has become an expert at navigating the building even when it’s in a more irritable mood. Even if it was trying, it likely couldn’t get King truly lost for more than a few minutes. When King isn’t in his courtyard, or on the roof, or out in the woods, he’s inside scampering around, seemingly with no destination in mind. The more perceptive, however, may be able to see that he is actually playing with the building, letting it try to outsmart him and his instincts. (Dark, when he catches him doing this, advises him to stop - they don’t really want the building to get smarter. King sniggers and runs off anyway.)

Dark is usually unaffected by Egos Inc.’s shenanigans. They have a mutual grudging respect, and generally leave each other alone. The building looks for subtle ways to ‘punish’ Dark for his behavior, though. When the building learned that Dark is colorblind, it changed the color of the walls of his office to a shade of pink that Dark could not differentiate from his normal gray. Dark endured a week of egos giggling when they entered his office before Wilford, in true Wilford fashion, burst in and loudly complimented his new decor. Dark, with Wilford helping, managed to turn his walls back to normal, but he was more careful of what he got up to when the building’s attention was on him.

Wilford adores his weird nonsense sentient building. And it adores him right back. Of all the egos, Wilford is the most attuned to its ‘moods’ and even talks to it out loud. Whether he hears anything in response is a matter of debate among the other egos, but it’s obvious that it at least listens. The thirteenth floor, home to Wilford’s studio and varying other gameshow, news, and interview sets, changes instantaneously with Warfstache’s desires, morphing and changing and becoming bigger or smaller on a whim.

The other main egos are wary of the building, but absolutely respect it. After all, when something can move your bedroom to the basement near the trash bins in the middle of the night, it’s best to be polite towards it. In turn, Egos Inc. takes care of them as well as it can. Though it usually avoids changing its inner structure - while whole floors are sometimes added, the order stays the same, as do the organization of rooms within them - if an ego forgets how to human, Egos Inc. is there to assist. When Doctor Iplier has been staying up using excessive coffee drinking, any time he attempts to beeline for the kitchen for another cup he ends up finding his bedroom instead. When Artiplier has been working hard on paintings, pushed to his limits by Red Man, his bedroom door, which usually opens to the hallway, opens to the kitchen instead, the smell of a fresh meal enticing Artie to take a break. Even Wilford isn’t exception to the building’s ‘parenting.’ Often, a long night working in the studio ends when Wilford (along with Bim, the Jim quadruplets, and any of the other studio egos) is dropped through a suddenly appearing trapdoor only to land on his bed in his room.

The egos can't think of any better place to live. How the Septic Egos live in a single cabin all together over in Jack's mindscape is beyond them. But to each set of egos their own.


End file.
